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Seems to be consensus. Well, that's the last bit of flowery guff *I* waste blog space on. As bad as my mum's friends are, you lot, blathering on about horticulture.

Actually, I have a bunch of Australians turning up on Wednesday - some traveling orchestra and hangers-on on whom my mum is in the habit of showering hospitality whenever they play on Prospero's isle.

The organiser took it for granted that mama would be here and booked them in to tour le jardin sans checking first. Doesn't matter to me.

"Sure," I told her, "turn up any time. If you want to refresh them, bring whatever booze and biccies they need and traipse all you like. I won't join you, if you don't mind:

1) I haven't the faintest idea what or why anything is 2) I waste enough good drinking time as it is, slogging round with a wheelbarrow or a rake or the shredder or whatever that hooky clawy thing is. For the next 20 days, neither my gaze nor feet will travel over the greeny flowery bits. I shall sit here on the patio, at my right drinking hand, a line of every single bottle in the house; at my left a pile of CDs for leafing thru and playing VERY LOUDLY, and scattered around in plates and ashtrays, an assortment of smokes ready to plonk straight to lips and incendiarise.

But now my plans are buggered because when the assembled throng marvel and ask me, "But surely, maitre, you know the name of at least ONE growth in this garden of Eden?", I shall have to give a worldly sigh and bid them "Very well, if you must ... follow me" and I shall lead them down the steps and with hand on cocked hip, wave a foppish paw at the yellow bunch and drawl, "Observe, dear boy - the might crocus."